I'm back again.

At this time of year, in the rainy season, you don't want to stay in the villages for very long.

It rains every day, it pours down, tropical downpours. Yaviza is a big village and living here these days means living amongst stagnant water, rubbish, rotting animal carcasses and floating plastics, vultures, and mosquitoes. Sorry, this is far from the idyllic image  we'd like to have but  is the reality.

Usually, I travel by pirogue much further on than this village, but during my stay this time, I had arranged to stay here, and the artisans came to me in pirogues, I organise the trip for them from their villages.

Generally they like me to come to their village and visit their house, but sometimes I ask them to come all the way to this big village, which saves me a lot of time. A lot of time means 8 hours a day in a pirogue on the jungle rivers.

Here they can also buy rice, oil, and a few basic products that they can't find in their own areas.

It was a busy time, as always.

In one of the villages, where we had planned to produce 30 to 40 masks, we ended up making a lot more. I do try to divide the production between several villages, so that the income is shared between them. The week before I came, they told me there were 65 masks and they arrived with around 100.

I have a coordinator in each village, but coordination is always difficult. Sometimes some of the artisans work less and don't produce the expected output, sometimes they work harder and, as on this occasion, new unknown craftswomen join us simply because they want to work with us. But they don't let me know and the work doesn't always live up to my expectations.

I also must always carry all the cash with me, so I have to plan as carefully as possible before I travel, as it can be dangerous to travel with so much money.

Past experience has also taught me that I always have to be careful, because the artisans who have worked with me for many years don't always appreciate it when I bring in new people. There can be jealousy and envy between them.

I must be very delicate.

Our mentalities and ways of thinking are so different and my logic doesn't always fit.

I tend to always buy more than I need and more than I can sell, because it's hard for me to say no!

The simplest masks are now in my catalogue with the classification: PRIMITIVE. They are less sophisticated, less fine than the others, but very authentic.

Many artisans strive to produce more and more beautiful, finer and finer work, working according to my criteria and my advice, and we work wonders. But some less scrupulous craftswomen take advantage of my tendency to support and help all the families; they can slack off and try to cheat me on quality. I often must call them to order. I'm very demanding.

During my stays, I experience many situations that oscillate between despair and laughter, but once I step away, I recognise that I find more joy and happiness in what I do than sorrow.

On this occasion, the pain came from elsewhere, and I was expecting it.

Thousands of migrants arrive in Darien every day. Those who arrive have just crossed the jungle, where they have spent at least a week in indescribable conditions.

They arrive in indigenous communities, more specifically in Bajo Chiquito, where there is only one road from Colombia, organised and totally controlled by the drug-trafficking mafia, “los narcos”.

Thousands of migrants are arriving in indigenous communities of 200 to 300 people, upsetting the balance of these communities.

Now, one thousand to one thousand five hundred people arrive here every day, many of them families with young children. Most of the women have been raped, sometimes in front of their children. They arrive wounded, exhausted, they've seen dead bodies along the way, they've found snakes, they've been attacked and robbed, You only have to look into their eyes to know.

I've seen them walking along the road every day, parents carrying their young children in their arms, carrying just one or two small rucksacks for the whole family.

They are placed in refuges and from these refuges buses leave every night for Costa Rica, where they are sent to and unloaded on the other side of the border. Panama does not want migrants on its territory. Buses leave and return again and again.

The journey costs 60 dollars per person; a family of four needs 240 dollars... Those who have no money are the ones I saw walking. From here to the border with the United States, it is 5,000 kilometres with 6 countries to cross, all this after surviving the hell of the Darien jungle.

Just over 50 migrants travel in each bus. Last Saturday, while I was there, 27 buses left in a convoy during the night. The next day another convoy left. It goes on like this almost every night at the moment.

They always leave at night, a convoy of 5 or 10 buses travelling together, full of wounded souls.

We always talk about them as people without faces, without personal lives... they are always and only "migrants".

I found myself in the situation of going to one of these refuges one night just before the departure of a convoy because the person who was driving me had to collect the money from his bus, which was part of the convoy.

Each trip represents a net income of 2800 dollars for the bus owner. For those who have bought a bus (or several), it's a very lucrative business.

As my driver counted his dollars, I watched the crowded buses, ready to leave, with their red lights blinking in the deep jungle night like the lights of a funfair. That pain and that miserable feeling I felt will stay with me for the rest of my life.

Perhaps there is something worseof seeing misery, it is indifference to misery.

I learn from each of my journeys. Learning is hard, but it's a journey.

And more than ever, I continue to believe in magic.